


Discomfited by Heat and Other Stresses

by Kittie



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: And this is a birthday present for my friend, F/M, Post Trespasser, This is pure fluff, Trespasser Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-18
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-05-07 09:57:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5452526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kittie/pseuds/Kittie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Josephine returns home with former Commander of the Inquisition's Forces as her guard. Pre-established Josie/Cullen. Pure fluff. That's it. 1.4k words of fluffy goodness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Discomfited by Heat and Other Stresses

The trip to Antiva had not been pleasant for Cullen. The weather change was drastic to his Fereldan sensibilities but he could deal if that meant Josephine would smile like she did the first day they stepped from their carriages to feel the warmth across her skin. She had laughed—sweet Maker, she had laughed enough to make the uncomfortable heat against his flesh bearable. He’d walk through the desert if it meant she smiled with her lips nearly from ear to ear. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen her so happy in a public viewing. He finds he’s rather hooked to the sound of her giggle when she is pleased with the world around her.

Antiva, however, is not Ferelden. Not by a long shot. His furs are shed in favor of tight silks and satins. He feels like he’s encased, clothes too tight but the blush across dark flesh is certainly a sight he never grows tired of when he emerges from his room. They have separate rooms during their visit. He knows the rumors of their love have filled the halls but there are manners in which to proceed to keep this as traditional as the Montilyet would surely preferred. Especially since he is a Fereldan man with very little land to his name—but he has connections within the Inquisition (newly disbanded) and close ties to the current Divine. What he offers to their daughter is little compared to what the Duke had—whom he fought to keep her free from. He was a Knight with invisible connections; he doesn’t see how he’ll ever be worthy of her and her hand.

Most of the time, Cullen is there. A ghost behind Josephine with a sword against his flank. He’s been appointed her guard (with a far few others) but he is the only one in plain sight. He finds the closeness comforting in a country he hardly knows where the food burns so hotly he couldn’t breathe and where the heat smothered his very lungs—but for her, he’s tried. For her, he’ll always try. She needn’t ask, he’d always give.

Satinalia comes around, Antiva in full swings with parties and decadence that leaves the Fereldan man off kilter. The sweets, however, have become a vice. He trains often, reminding himself not to indulge but Josephine smiles just so and he finds himself with one too many sweet things in his stomach than could be considered healthy. He laughs because she’s happy. She laughs because he’s happy. Cullen can’t fathom any other view for her. He’s give his life to keep her so utterly enthralled with the world. He would give anything to keep her happy, be anything to keep her smiling.

The Montilyets host their own party that their daughter works diligently to make everything perfect for. He sees the stress on her shoulders, has worked the flesh between his fingers when she’d given him enough time to attempt to alleviate her aches and woes. Her shoulders were too taunt, eyes too tired, and lips too thin with stress. He’d given it his all to assist but she waves him off. She can handle this and Cullen doesn’t doubt Josephine’s ability, he merely doubts his own to allow her to be so miserable in planning a party. It makes no sense to him but her parents assist as word comes that Josie’s sister will be in attendance.

When the night comes, they’re all dressed to perfection. Josephine’s hands had smoothed over wrinkles and worried over his attire. His sword was left to his rooms; the guard was ample enough to not warrant fear for either of their persons. After all, Cullen did pick the absolute best and would have nothing less than absolute perfection for this night, of all nights.

He bides his time, awkward as ever but it’s easy to stand tall. Women and men preen over his form but he pays little mind. His eyes are on the one person in the room whom matters. His glass of water is left, he wishes to remember this moment, as he strolls up to Josephine when the time is just right.

Sweet Maker, he sucks in a breath. Josephine is beyond anything he’s ever known. Her hair is pulled back into intricate woven braids that makes her jawline stand out. Her entire being radiates beauty and Cullen nearly forgets what he’s trying to do. He’s lost in the movement of her supple lips. He asks, though, after a moment has passed and she looks expectantly towards him.

“May I have this dance? “

The words were practiced. Her shock is evident; it was no secret that he detested dancing. He’d never been taught– never had a reason to dance when his entire life revolved around protecting those who could not from themselves or others.

“Why yes, Ser Rutherford, you may. “

She replies, so dignified. His heart manages to pick up in pace as he offers her hand. Her hands are so delicate in his grip but he knows the story of the dagger. He knows neither of their hands are clean, neither of them are innocent and it matters not because she smiles and he knows he’d absolve her of all of her sins if he were allowed.

They move to the room, his steps are practiced; he cannot afford to look daft in front of those whose opinions matter to Josephine’s operation. He is no fool when it comes to the game, he just doesn’t like it. Their touches are chaste, even when the tempo increases to a lover’s fold. She tests him, taking the lead and he allows her; it shows his willingness to give and take. She is not beneath him, never. She’s always been above him and so much more than he could have ever wanted.

“Marry me,” he whispers into the shell of her ear when he eases his hand to support the small of her back as he lowers her. Lips, tinted with some product he hasn’t the slightest idea of but finds the color alluring, part in shock. Dark eyes widen as he picks her up, hands clapping at their display. They made a spectacle of themselves, a group standing about them. When he falls to his knee, her right hand within his grasp. His thumb brushes against knuckles, eyes soft; he cares little of what those around them think.

“Lady Josephine Montilyet, will you marry me?”

He repeats, louder. There’s a shocked gasp, murmurs break out around them. He is a Fereldan man that doesn’t belong within their circle; he has nothing to offer her—but those who know him behind closed doors knows the soft looks glanced at her direction as she passes. Those around him know the way he clutches his sword tight against his flank when he feels like she is threatened. Those close to them know how much he’s willing to give to see her happy. No amount of money is worth love at the end of the day.

It’s the only reason her parents said yes and he knows it.

“Yes,” Josephine’s eyes look at him with shock—easily turning into an enamored gaze, “Ser Cullen Stanton Rutherford, I will marry you.”

The ring is dug from his pocket, a compartment he hadn’t been aware of until Josephine’s father had commented on where to put the box to make sure he didn’t forget. The ring belonged to her mother, given as a gift of good will knowing Cullen had nothing to his name beyond a farm that wasn’t even his own but in possession of by his sister. It was all too much and he had said as such but they would hear nothing of it. This was their daughter, the heir. She had done so much for them already—so much that Cullen had helped with in his role of commander beside her. The ring would never been enough repayment.

As the ring slides on her finger, Cullen thinks it’s dull compared with the sight of her eyes. Her smile. The jewels didn’t dare attempt to shine brighter than his entire being. He doubts the sun, in its glory, could be brighter than the very woman he’s knelt to in front of. His bride to be, his everything.

“Thank you.”

He finds himself saying. The Knight takes to a stand, unsure of what he’s allowed within the circle of people but the kiss she instigates means so much. It’s every vow he wants to say to the Maker. He wants her happy, healthy, and to never leave her side for as long as they both shall live.


End file.
